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He grabs her hips and resists the urge to dig his fingers in and grind her into his lap. She sits rigidly on his legs, perched with her face entirely too close to the windshield.
She should be against him. For practicality’s sake, not because he hasn’t stopped thinking about the hot weight of her body as she lay on him in that field.
Finally Iris gives up and slides back against him, and he loves that now he knows they fit like this, too.
It will be a long journey to the front, and the road is so gouged that he thinks he might end up inside her at some point anyway. Whatever he does, he cannot get hard. He breathes in the intoxicating scent of her hair and thinks of all the horrible things his father called her. It only makes him love her more.
They go over a pothole and she slams against him, the curve of her ass mashing the shaft of his cock and he can feel the slight bounce because he’s not totally soft anymore. But he really, really should be.
Instead, he’s wondering what would happen if he could be honest.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you mind terribly if I fucked her slowly against the dash of your lorry before we all die?”
And the captain wouldn’t look. He’d just nod once—practical, understanding—and keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road while Roman got his own jumpsuit open and pulled hers to her knees and helped guide her down onto him. Maybe she’d stop to catch her breath, only for another rut to drive him in deeper. She’d whimper and he would brush her hair back from her neck and murmur apologies even though he liked it. Sublime. Transcendent. Divine. He’d look down to see how wet she was making his cock, how they were making this dingy leather-lined cab smell like fresh fucking. He’d reach around to touch her—gentle at first, and then harder if she needed it. He would learn fast.
Maybe then the captain would glance over, just a peek to watch where Roman’s other hand slid into her shirt to grab her bouncing tit.
He’s hard now. Leaking a little, aching a lot. She must not be able to feel it through their layers of clothes, or doesn’t know what it is. Or maybe she thinks it’s a totally natural response, unstoked and independent of his thoughts, just an embarrassing reflex that he’s nobly fighting. Which it usually is. And if he’d known they’d be doing this, he would’ve taken care of himself last night. Not that it would’ve helped because he’s got his arm around Iris’s waist like he’s always dreamed of.
A set of bumps jostles the lorry hard and, fuck, he can’t stop the helpless groan.
“Am I hurting you?” she says over her shoulder.
“No.”
“Are you squinting, Kitt?”
“Do you want to turn and see for yourself, Winnow?” Turn and straddle him and sink down and take it while he watches her face. That’s how he really wants to do it the first time: with her, face to face. Clinging like that statue he committed to memory while drinking champagne he couldn’t even taste.
He’s getting sweaty from thinking about that first gasping push into her and from fighting the overpowering need to thrust against her ass and come. Gods and stars and every fucking thing, he wants to come so badly he could beg.
“Winnow, please. I’m sorry, this is going to make a mess, but please just let me pretend to fuck you for two seconds so I can get off so hard I forget where we are.”
But all he ever does is pretend—that he isn’t burning up with love, that he doesn’t have every word she’s ever written wrapped up like fine china and tucked in the attic of his mind. Because he doesn’t actually care what happens to him as long as she’s safe.
The sharp need recedes to that familiar, intricate yearning he’s been living with for longer than he’d like to admit. He softens; the tide ebbs.
Her hair is in his mouth, and he loves every strand.